


under every grief and pine

by sarahyyy



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Sad Enjolras, because apparently this is a thing I do now, unnecessary manpain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-30 04:09:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahyyy/pseuds/sarahyyy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire leaves on a Tuesday, and that makes sense because Enjolras hates Tuesdays. Grantaire wouldn’t have chosen to leave on a Friday because Fridays are Enjolras’ favourite days. Grantaire is thoughtful like that, always watching out for his feelings because Grantaire had always hated it when he got upset. </p><p>Or maybe Grantaire hadn’t, because if he had, he wouldn’t have left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	under every grief and pine

Grantaire leaves on a Tuesday, and that makes sense because Enjolras hates Tuesdays. Grantaire wouldn’t have chosen to leave on a Friday because Fridays are Enjolras’ favourite days. Grantaire is thoughtful like that, always watching out for his feelings because Grantaire had always hated it when he got upset. 

Or maybe Grantaire hadn’t, because if he had, he wouldn’t have left. 

\--

“Maybe he had an urgent family thing he had to go to?” Courfeyrac suggests.

“Maybe he went on a spontaneous trip!” Cosette says.

“Maybe he left you a note and it flew away and you didn’t see it and he lost his phone so he couldn’t call you and didn’t think you would worry because he left you a note,” Jehan says. 

“Maybe he got kidnapped,” Marius tries.

“Maybe he just needed time,” Feuilly says.

“Maybe he fucking left you because you didn’t care about him enough,” Eponine snarls. 

They are angry, they are worried, and they’re all here but Enjolras doesn’t give a fuck because they don’t _matter_ , none of them do, because none of them are Grantaire. 

“He’ll come back,” Combeferre promises, even though he can’t know.

Enjolras wants to believe Combeferre, he does.

\--

Sometimes the phone rings.

Sometimes he ignores it till it stops. Sometimes he disconnects the wires. Sometimes he puts his pillows over his head and presses down, pushes hard, and cries until his sobs cover the sounds of the phone that is still ringing. Sometimes he is frozen in his steps, heart in his throat, waiting for Grantaire to pick the phone up and snap at whoever it is that _it’s seven o’clock in the bloody morning, something had better be on fire_. 

Sometimes, rarely so, but sometimes, he picks up the phone, makes pleasant conversation, laughs, and tries to sound like a functioning human being, because then people would not see how broken he is.

\--

Sometimes it rains.

Sometimes he stares out the window and doesn’t speak until the rain ends. Sometimes he draws all the curtains and plays music loudly to drown out the sounds. Sometimes he gets angry. Sometimes he waits for the door to open and for Grantaire to walk in, drenched, cursing at the rain, glaring at him because _you need to stop stealing my umbrella, I love you, but not enough to get pneumonia for you_.

Sometimes, rarely so, but sometimes, he goes out and sits in the rain and cries, because if no-one can differentiate between the rain and his tears, no-one can say that he’s crying.

\--

Sometimes he dreams.

Sometimes he cannot make sense of the blur of shapes and colours that he dreams. Sometimes he dreams that he’s standing in the middle of vast nothingness. Sometimes he dreams he’s a different person, living a different life, capable of different things. Sometimes, he dreams of waking up next to Grantaire, of pressing little kisses against his jaw until he wakes up, smiles lazily, and says _this is my favourite way to wake up_. 

Sometimes, rarely so, but sometimes, he goes to the liquor cabinet, picks up a few bottles, and drinks himself into a stupor, because if he cannot remember his dreams, he cannot hate himself for them. 

\--

“It’s been a month, you need to pull yourself together,” Combeferre says.

“If it’s too hard being here alone, you can come and stay with us,” Courfeyrac says.

“He would hate to see you like this,” Musichetta says.

“I hope you are fucking happy that he’s gone,” Bahorel says.

And that’s not fair, that’s fucking unfair, because he isn’t happy, hasn’t been happy in a really long time, doesn’t think he can ever be happy again until Grantaire comes back.

If Grantaire ever comes back.

\--

He knows why Grantaire left.

He doesn’t tell anyone, but he knows. He knows that Grantaire left because of him, because he was being an idiot, because in the heat of the moment, he’d said _if you can’t stand me, why don’t you leave me?_

And Grantaire does, of course he does, because he always listens to him, even when Enjolras is wrong.

\--

He calls Grantaire sometimes. 

The number hasn’t disconnected, and a part of Enjolras thinks that maybe Grantaire listens to the voicemails he leaves him, so if nothing, at least he knows how sorry Enjolras is, and how much Enjolras loves him. 

Another part of him wishes that Grantaire deletes all his voicemails without listening to them, because then at least Enjolras can tell himself that Grantaire isn’t back because he doesn’t know how sorry Enjolras is, and that if he just knew, he would come back home.

\--

He thinks he sees Grantaire sometimes, quick flashes of him, one moment there and then gone.

In places like the train station, he sees dark curly hair, messy under a red beanie, and feels his heart clench so tightly it hurts to breathe, and he has to run after him, even if most of the times he ends up crushed when he catches up and realizes that it isn’t Grantaire. 

In the supermarket, he catches a glimpse of the ugly green t-shirt Grantaire is so fond of wearing, and wants to call out to him, wants the man to turn over and be Grantaire, but he knows it can’t be because that ugly green shirt is still sitting in Enjolras’ closet — _their_ closet—, mocking him for being useless, for letting Grantaire go. Enjolras leaves the t-shirt there, because he understands the t-shirt. It’s left behind, like him. 

At the park, he sees a man sketching and turns away, runs the whole way back to his apartment, because everything reminds him of Grantaire and everything hurts.

\--

Jehan says, “He says he’s fine.”

Says, “He won’t tell me where he is.”

Says, “He says he’ll come home, but not now.”

Says, “He says it’s not your fault, Enjolras.”

Says, “He says to stop calling.”

Enjolras’ fingers tremble when he presses the _Delete Contact_ button, even though it’s symbolic. He knows Grantaire’s number by heart, and every minute he spends not grilling Jehan for more information on Grantaire, he finds it gets harder to breathe. 

(He thinks it would be hard, relearning how to breathe when Grantaire isn’t around him.)

\--

He works. 

He works because Grantaire is fine, Grantaire is doing good without him, possibly better without him than with him, and there’s a thought that makes his heart ache, and he doesn’t think he can live like this forever, marinating in his heartache, so he works.

He works harder and longer than he has in a long time, forgoes sleep and forgets food, and doesn’t go home, because fuck, home is where Grantaire is, and Grantaire isn’t in his apartment anymore, he doesn’t know where Grantaire is, so he has no home to go to, and what the fuck is he even rambling about anymore, and oh, Combeferre is here, why is Combeferre here? 

His head hurts. Is it supposed to hurt? Maybe. Everything should hurt because Grantaire isn’t here anymore. He deserves to have everything hurt. 

“Oh, Enjolras,” Combeferre murmurs, and he looks sad, even though he shouldn’t be sad. He has Courfeyrac, and Enjolras is happy for them, has he mentioned that? He is very happy for them. 

You know who would be happy for them too? Grantaire would be, except Grantaire isn’t here, and it’s his fault that Grantaire isn’t here, and oh, maybe that’s why Combeferre looks so sad. He is sad that Grantaire isn’t here to be happy for him. And that’s Enjolras’ fault, so Combeferre should hate him. Everyone should hate him.

“I could never hate you, Enjolras,” Combeferre says, and the words are right, but the person saying them is wrong, and Enjolras is suddenly so tired. He just needs to shut his eyes for a moment, needs to get his brain to work again. He also needs Grantaire to come back, most importantly, but he can’t have everything.

Two out of three is good.

\--

The first time he wakes up, he’s groggy and everything feels off, but he inexplicably feels better than he has in a long time. He tries to open his eyes, but it’s too bright in the room, so he keeps them close, almost ready to fall back to sleep at the sound of his friends talking.

Combeferre says, “You’ve been out cold for 38 hours.”

Joly says, “You were running such a high fever.”

Courfeyrac says, “Jesus, Enj, don’t scare us like that again.”

And he’s tired, he still tired, but the hand in his, the hand clutching his, is familiar, and he wants to open his eyes, he does, but he’s so tired. 

He drifts off to a familiar voice saying, “Go back to sleep, Apollo.”

\--

The second time he wakes up, it is dark and Courfeyrac is slumped in the chair by the bed, asleep, and there is no sign of Grantaire. Of course there isn’t, of course Enjolras hallucinated him, of course— 

He sees Grantaire’s beanie, that stupid red beanie that he’s so fond of because it matches Enjolras’ favourite red jacket. He’d worn his jacket, and Grantaire his beanie, the first date that they had, and Jehan had cooed at them and taken photos of them. Grantaire’s favourite photo out of the set is sitting on the bookshelf back in their apartment. 

He shakes Courfeyrac awake. 

“Where is he?” he asks, and he must look as desperate as he sounds because Courfeyrac sobers up faster than he has ever done the whole time Enjolras has known him. 

“He was here,” Courfeyrac says in a rush. “I’m sorry, I must have fallen asleep. But he was here, he wouldn’t have left.”

“He can’t leave,” Enjolras croaks. “He can’t leave again, Courf, I can’t— I need to find him, he can’t— Courf, _where is he_?” 

“Enjolras.”

Enjolras’ head snaps to the door, and Christ, it’s Grantaire, Grantaire is here. 

“Grantaire.”

“Courf,” Grantaire says, “could you—?”

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac says, “I’ll go home, Combeferre will be— Yeah, I’ll just go.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says again when Courfeyrac leaves. 

“What have you done to yourself, Apollo?” Grantaire murmurs, sitting down in the chair Courfeyrac just vacated, and Enjolras wants to take Grantaire’s hand, wants to hold on tight and never let go, but Grantaire still looks hesitant, like he isn’t sure if he made the right choice in coming back, and that’s all Enjolras’ fault. “I didn’t think you would— I didn’t know—”

“You left,” Enjolras says. “You left, and nothing felt right anymore.” And he’s crying now, he must be, because his eyes sting and his vision blurs, but he brushes the back of his hand over his eyes quickly to clear his vision because what if Grantaire disappears when he isn’t looking again? 

“You asked me to leave,” Grantaire says quietly.

“I didn’t mean it,” Enjolras says, voice cracking. “I never wanted you to leave.”

Grantaire’s smile is sad. “You always mean the things you say when you’re angry.” 

“Not this one,” Enjolras says. “I never wanted you to leave,” he repeats. “I’m so sorry, R, so sorry. Don’t leave me again, please. I’m sorry, I love you.”

“I know,” Grantaire says, and covers Enjolras’ hand with his. Enjolras turns his palms over so their fingers can slot together, and holds on tight.

He isn’t letting go this time.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Blake's "Auguries of Innocence": "under every grief & pine, runs a joy with silken twine."
> 
> I'm [here on tumblr](http://sarah-yyy.tumblr.com/)! Come say hi!


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